


So It Goes

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Happy Ending, Husbands, M/M, Recovery, Relapse, Self-Harm, Taking care of one another, mentioned past eating disorder, more warnings in top author's note :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: In. He feels like he’s going to burst, lungs filled to the brim. Out. It’s more of a sigh, deep and long. It leaves him feeling empty; he gulps in another breath.Jaskier isn’t home; it’s his turn to pick up the groceries.Or, Geralt has a relapse when Jaskier goes out; Jaskier comes home and takes care of his husband and assures him relapsing is a part of healing <3
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 109





	So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> More tags: explicit description of self harm, relapse during recovery, mentioned past eating disorder, talk of how “good” it feels to sh, happy ending
> 
> Please, please be careful! Triggering content ahead, please take care of urself and dont read it if it's hurt you no matter how little <3

_In._ He feels like he’s going to burst, lungs filled to the brim. _Out_. It’s more of a sigh, deep and long. It leaves him feeling empty; he gulps in another breath. 

Jaskier isn’t home; it’s his turn to pick up the groceries. 

Geralt’d been thinking about this for a long, long time and now that blood fills in the cuts he— he doesn’t— _he can’t._ He breathes out again, trying to think. They’re not deep. They feel damnably good and he itches to make more. The guilt is slow to come, euphoria fading as blood begins to drip down his arm and dry in long streaks against his pale skin. _Fuck_. What’s he _done_. Still, he wants more. His skin aches for it, his wrists wanting. 

Geralt swallows; his arm stings, the slanted, parallel lines now bleeding as sluggish as his thoughts. He doesn’t want to move. Jaskier will be back soon. Just another. Just one more, across his wrist, where he aches the most to feel the sharp sting of it. Just one more, to cope; he deserves, doesn’t he? He deserves to feel good after all the shit this year’s put him through, and the things he couldn’t control.

“Geralt?” The front door swings open. Geralt can’t move. The blade is still poised against his wrist, pressure light as to not cut anything but the thin skin. He doesn’t move, sits still as he stares at the blade so comically small between his fingers, wrestled out from a razor. Jaskier’s footsteps grow closer; Geralt’s not going to get better, he’d been clean for years, over a fucking decade now but _fuck_. He’s got wrinkles now, and he still feels like that fourteen year old whose world had swallowed him whole. Who’s he kidding? He hasn’t changed a bit, and the work was for null.

The cut is light, barely a scratch across his skin and it stings so good. “Geralt, darling?” Geralt doesn’t look up as Jaskier peeks into the room, doesn’t want to see the disappointment and disgust on his husband’s face. The blade is carefully taken out of his left hand, and is set on the bedside table next to them. “Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. The warmth of his body is comfort and shame wrapped in one, and Geralt is both relieved and longing when it slips away. 

The emptiness is gone, and Geralt is awfully, rudely deposited back on earth. They aren’t deep, but there are so _many_ , made with wild abandon in an attempt to chase an escape. He presses his palms to his eyes, eyes stinging and lashes wet. “Come on, darling.” Jaskier’s hand slips into his, and Geralt numbly lets him guide him to the bathroom. Warm water runs in the sink, and Jaskier’s gentle hands guide Geralt’s arm under the stream. He grits his teeth at the sting, resting his head against Jaskier’s shoulder. He’s safe now; Jaskier will take care of him, as they’ve done for one another a million times in the past. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper. “I—” he doesn’t have an excuse, just that, “It was too much, Jas. Everything was.” And Jaskier, sweet, understanding Jaskier, presses a kiss to his hair. He washes the blood away with gentle, circular strokes with the pads of his fingers. It’s forgiveness in itself, and a reminder that Geralt has nothing to apologize for. Still, regret and guilt make him ache. He’s so tired, so suddenly exhausted. 

He lets himself drift as Jaskier washes his arm, the dull scent of their hand soap rising up with the warm steam. “You’re alright, Geralt.” Jaskier says, and Geralt swallows a sob as he leans against him. “Almost done, and we can go cuddle, alright? There’s a new season of Derry Girls I’ve been meaning to watch, and we both _know_ that Orla’s your favorite character so don’t even try it.” He smiles, and Geralt thinks he deserves the world. He nods mutely from Jaskier’s shoulder, and straightens as he’s led outside the bathroom again.

The cuts begin bleeding slightly, and Jaskier towels down his arm with gentle pats. “Sit here,” Jaskier tells him. Tears begin streaming down Geralt’s cheeks, and he’s too tired to fight them as he melts into the sofa seat. “I’m going to get bandages and Neosporin, alright, darling?” Geralt nods once before letting his eyes slip closed. Jaskier still calls him darling, and touches him as if nothing’s changed.

“There you are,” Jaskier hums. His hands are quick as he smoothes the antibiotic ointment over the patch of cuts on the upper half of Geralt’s forearm, and begins wrapping the roll gauze over the wound not too tightly. Another smear of ointment goes over his wrist, a simple bandaid smoothed onto his skin. Jaskier’s done this before, when they were a little less than two decades younger and deeply, foolishly in love. Twin gold bands don their respective fingers and Geralt still can’t believe Jaskier chose him, a broken man that might never heal. “We’ll have to change it before we go to bed, darling. Good for now, though. Do you want water? Something to eat?” Geralt shakes his head, eyes slipping closed

“I’m never going to get better, Jaskier.” It’s a statement that haunts him, and Geralt confesses it to his lover with near silent words. 

Jaskier smiles. “Do you remember when I stopped eating last year?” He tucks Geralt into his side, coaxing him to rest his head against his inner shoulder. “After my agent dropped me? Do you remember how bad I got? Couldn’t stomach anything,” he mutters, “it felt good to starve.” Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s neck, inching closer to his warmth as he lays lax in his husband’s embrace.

“Darling, look at me.” Geralt peers up at him, his bandaged arm resting across his lap. Jaskier’s smiling down at him, hair frizzy and curled from the humidity of oncoming rain; he cheeks are flushed with the warmth of their apartment, and he looks quiet and content. “This is a part of getting better.” He slips his hand into Geralt’s, fingers intertwining. “You’re doing so well; this isn’t failure, darling, it’s _healing_. You’re healing.” 

Geralt doesn’t realize he’s crying again till Jaskier brushes away the wetness under his eyes. “You’re alright, Geralt.” A soft pair of lips press a kiss to his forehead, to his head. Derry Girls runs in the background as Geralt dozes, safe, taken care of, and healing in Jaskier’s arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr <3 (@persony-pepper)](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)
> 
> Side note: I usually don't post this kinda stuff I write for other people on here, but I figured it'd help more people here and if not, then it's a ficfor me when I need it :)


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